It was night’s like these where the world felt alive. Wind whistled in the streets like a serenade by a band that was something of a mix between 21 pilots and 21 pilots. Fog fogged up everything. The sky was grey. And the air tasted like tacos. A woman with hair the color of frosted cinnamon rolls wearing a shirt tie-dyed with pure, raw emotion, sat in the uppermost window of a dramatic tower, thoughtfully thinking. She sipped her iced tea. And inspiration came down hard on her head like a camel who had just slid in a puddle of slimy bubble solution.
She thought thoughts like this very often, for you see, she was a cavalier of romance, a waver of the flag of beauty, a herald of fandoms everywhere. A fanfictionalist. And tonight, as she breathed in the profound smell of tacos she could almost hear the bells of fanfiction mournfully tolling in the distance. Tonight was the night. She would write the most legendary crossover in all of history. She smiled the devilish smile of devilishness and began.
I am applying for a new job. Being a narrator doesn’t pay much. Today I configured a resume, decided that I hated it, deleted it, spent two hours trying to figure out the proper way to spell resume, and then wallowed in misery for the rest of the day wrapped in a picnic blanket and playing Persona 5.
All in all I’d say it was quite a productive day. Tomorrow, I am volunteering in the annual Fall Festival selling donuts (because I needed to put that on my resume). I was quite excited until I realized that no one ever comes to the Fall Festival except elderly people and tourists. Would you like to come to the Fall Festival? I’ll save you a donut.
But I did not set about to tell you about donuts and resumes today (as interesting as they may be). I came to place a very important question at your feet. One that has affected many generations of people, and will continue to be hotly debated in whatever local places people do their hot debating. The question is this: coffee, or tea?
I do not like coffee. I do not like tea. I enjoy a very strict diet of anything that is more than half constituted of sugar. But it makes me wonder, why do people like coffee, or tea? Why do they taste very different to each person? The substance doesn't change. The tongue and its tasting parts that you probably learned in a middle school science project that didn't quite work out stays the same. It is the person that differs. Does coffee taste specifically different to each person? What affects the taste, then? Are our preferences set within us? Are they born from circumstances? Why do you like coffee, why do you like tea?
Middle schoolers should not be allowed to do anything. They should be equipped with safety glasses and hard hats before venturing outside, with no patch of sticky, clammy skin left exposed. Along with allergies, warnings such as “tendency for violence” or “enjoys repeatedly slamming doors” should be printed in red letters under their nametags. I vote we create new summer camp legislation. No middle schooler should enter the bathroom without signing a waiver.
You may respond to this with the gentle nostalgia of someone who has never worked as a camp counselor. “But you were a middle schooler once!” You might protest. Untrue, my family and I decided to skip this time of life for the benefit of all.
Much like Jesus, it took me moments to grow in wisdom and stature from child to quiet adult. The analogy does not extend as far as the “favor with God and men” part. God continued to send me confusing signals, and most of the men in my life at that time threw markers at me and gesticulated in German. I did speak German (eventually), but I didn’t speak “Man.” I once showed up to class during the World Cup. Sitting in the empty classroom, I waited out the prescribed 15 minutes for a teacher, classmate, or anyone to show up. After I convinced myself that a selective rapture of German music students (maybe just the good ones) had occurred, I saw a blur of black, red, and gold rush by the window as students in fan gear paraded across campus.
So, in my childhood wisdom, I skipped the phenomenon of American middle school and entered right into the meat of life: doubt, video games, and capitalism. The college thing didn’t really pan out, but the summer camp job remained steady.
Do you think Jesus ever mourned the fact that he outgrew his parents? I outgrew their health insurance at age 26. Which seems like a good time in life to figure yourself out. New address, new credit card number, new health insurance. All the trappings of a true adult. But I’ll tell you the first time you drive to the emergency room, all you can think about is your parents. You revert to a child, asking: where do I park? Do I sit here? Can you help me? Maybe unconsciously I remembered the very first time my birthday had been printed on a hospital bracelet. The very first occurrence of the day that would become the rest of my life. My social science teacher was right: hospitals are institutions of birth and death. We shut all that stuff in one place, but when you return there too early, in the in-between time, all the liminal sounds and devices seem wrong. And when something seems wrong, you look for your parents.
This isn’t a thought process I came up with at the hospital, but some deep reminiscence of my socialized brain: optimistically projecting meaning onto every encounter. In the moment, I actually mused on the stupidity of middle schoolers.
Somewhere in between “parent” and “eldritch creature” is the camp counselor. So, let me wrap this ramble back to the original story I wanted to get across to you: which is that middle schoolers should be wrapped in bubble wrap, then stored, counted, and supervised like laboratory samples. Because the safety lecture given before the kids began their community service cleanup project was not enough, and I had a bloody, rusty nail in my pocket to prove it.
I texted my boss that unfortunately, I needed to use my phone for reasons related to the emergency, and could not call the kiddo’s parents to explain the situation. Let’s be honest: I don’t have the ability to explain any situation. My excuse was not a lie: my phone was in use, by a grumpy middle school boy with his bandaged foot propped on a chair playing “Geometry Dash.” He tilted the screen and handed it behind his head to me.
“Can you beat this level?”
Recently I’ve adopted a new sleep schedule. I fall asleep around 10:00 PM, contained under a weighted blanket and sleep mask, my Night Phone spitting rain noises through its damaged speaker. When I wake up, usually around 2:00 AM (my body has been surprisingly consistent about this), I drift downstairs to check emails on my Day Phone and make a cup of tea. I have a peaceful hour of productivity before going back to sleep until noon.
Last night, I decided to take my tea outside and observe the stars. By stars, I mean the twinkling movement of lights and traffic that centralize into constellations on the city outskirts.
It’s 2:09 AM. But the man who lives below me is out on his balcony, staring, staring, like he’s going to predict the future from traffic patterns. I wonder what he’s looking at before I remember he can’t see. I apologize, internally, because this is one of those apologies that would make things worse if spoken. “Sorry sir, I forgot you were blind.”
It’s dark and I can’t make out the railing in front of me, but he can, hand reaching forward for a second before he finds the chipped metal bar. I walk forward too, feeling until I find the railing. That stuff is solid, man. This is what we should make the containment cells for middle school summer campers out of. Although I’d be worried about their concussive properties. I can hear it now: the clang of someone’s head against the metal barrier, and the offended yelp. Then the stuttered wail for Mom or Dad.
Have you ever used an espresso machine? I did for the first time yesterday. I won it in a raffle at the Fall Festival a few months ago (likely because I was the only person who entered the raffle). It became the nicest thing I own next to my collector’s edition Pokemon Adventures box set. I’m sure you’re wondering why I hadn’t actually used the espresso machine until yesterday. Honestly, I don’t remember. I have a vague memory of some sort of news story on "recalled espresso machines" and "burn risks." But I’m sure they wouldn’t have put any sort of dangerous item up for winning at the fall festival, would they?
So yesterday, I took my espresso machine out of the box and set it in a place of honor on my countertop. Meditatively, I arranged the various bits and bobs around the contraption in a ritual sort of semicircle. And slowly, I crafted my coffee: the-leveled off scoop of grounds, the snug, magical little cup, the silver handle that clicked perfectly into place.
I hope at least some of you can appreciate this. I hope you can appreciate the timeliness of coffee, the piousness of its process. How you wait as the earthy, austere smell builds and steams until it becomes reality.
I placed my favorite mug in the care of this espresso machine. It had a cartoon green cat on it glistening with clumsy, bumpy enamel. I’d had the mug since I was twelve.
Filling it to the brim with frothed milk, I carefully pinched the handle towards me. A heated hiss. The machine, not satisfied with its perfectly-ordered routine, released the rest of its liquid in a scalding spurt. As I snatched back my hand, the mug tipped and rolled. Perfect coffee splashed over the under-counter cabinets—all at once at first, and then a quiet drip. Drip. drip. My favorite mug lay shattered on the floor, flecks of weak, cartoon green visible.
There’s a phrase: “there’s no use crying over spilt milk.” We understand the significance of these words: we understand the stinging metaphor, we see the spilt milk on the ground. We arrange words and history ritualistically; we spill stories that crack people open leaving a drip. Drip. drip. You don’t walk away from spilt milk.
Because the next step is to get on your knees with a wet rag.
But oh well, that’s just how it goes. Milk and floor. Cycle of life!
This isn’t really relevant to today’s topic. I just wanted you to grieve my cat mug with me. In fact, I don’t actually have a topic. I was thinking we could talk about feelings! What are you feeling today beloved readers? Happy? Sad? Ferociously murderous? Soggy?
At the moment I am half-tuned into the news, as I’m sure many of you are as well. It’s a little distracting: the surging crowds, the flashing cameras. I think I’ve caught sight of a couple old-fashioned picket signs. And watching it all unfold, the high and mighty Crusaders in all their spandex-d glory stand before a surge of faces looking expectant and angry, I see the heroes we’ve all looked up to now looking down, faltering for words. I don’t care about the scandals, the supposed dirty compromises, or the failure of a shining team of heroes who don’t have the guts to face their mistakes. Did you see the picture of the boy who lost everything and his sister who can’t even get the privacy to grieve?
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why we can’t have nice things. The nicer they are, the more pieces they break into.
But oh well, what’s the use crying over spilled milk?
I hope you are having a wonderful day. I hope your day has been filled with sunshine and rainbows and those yummy little mini containers of strawberry yogurt they give you at hotel breakfasts. I hope that all your dreams have come true, your favorite webtoon has updated, and the person who died in your favorite tv show three seasons ago has mysteriously reappeared.
Once upon a time I met a girl who had never seen butter. I was a camp counselor at the time. She warily eyed the little gold packages pyramided next to a plastic bowl of breadsticks until I encouraged her to try it. And when she did, of course, that was the end of our table’s butter rations for the night. She inevitably came to me feeling sick later, but what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t take away the butter. Not after her eyes blew up like blimps when she licked a little off her finger. How on earth could someone have never eaten butter before? What did she spread on her toast? Hummus?
This story doesn’t have a point, I just found it humorous. But I guess it does demonstrate what I like to call the “too much of a good thing law.” Maybe I’m just a pessimist, but I am a firm believer in the saying, “what goes up, must come down.” What I’m saying is, something can only get so good, before it starts to go downhill. Majorly. Life is a whole rollercoaster of hills and valleys. And when you’re a teenager, the rollercoaster is run entirely upside down with no safety bars in the middle of a thunderstorm storm while Wii music plays from some unseen speaker. And very often, the consequences illuminated by those fleeting lightning strikes among the screams and loop-de-loops are far too real.
But of course, it was only butter, and this is only a story. The meaning of it is up to you.
